


Ghosts in the Machine

by Bodhicitta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7240618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodhicitta/pseuds/Bodhicitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does it mean to be real?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah..I just finished watching Ex Machina (I know, I'm always a year or two behind in viewing)....and then I realized how much I like A.I. science fiction...and any musings on what it means to be "real." So...what follows are many ficlets on this subject....

"But...I am real, right?"  Molly looked up at Sherlock with a mixture of fear, sadness, and hopefulness.  Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to overspill their banks.

This really was one of Sherlock's more cruel experiments.  Making Molly believe that she might not in fact be a Real Girl.  

John stood up, closed his fist, and slammed his knuckles down on the nearest end table.  

"This, Sherlock, is really beyond the pale."  

The good doctor walked over to Molly, put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in tight.  She curled into John and buried her face in his chest.  John murmured words of comfort into her hair and walked her to the door.  With his free hand, he grabbed her purse and somehow managed to turn the doorknob.

"Wait," Sherlock stammered, "where are you going?"

John glared at him over the top of the sobbing pathologist's head.  "I'm taking her home."

"Why?" Sherlock was genuinely confused.  He had procured the ethically required consent, or at least, assumed that by entering his abode, his acquaintance or maybe friend had tacitly...

John gestured with his head down at the girl in his arms.  "Molly.  Crying."

"Oh, not good?"

John rolled his eyes and pushed Molly out into the hallway.

Upon his return, John found Sherlock cataloguing the results of his experiment in a spreadsheet.  

"Ah, John.  So glad you're back.  Most fascinating, don't you agree?  That the sense of self can be so easily dismantled and reassembled."

"Except you didn't reassemble it.  You left her in pieces.  Are you actually a professional sadist or just a weekend dilettante?"

"Sadist?  No, if anything, my sexual proclivities would tend to mark me as more of a voyeur, although I find eliciting pain, in willing subjects, of course, to be more than a bit intriguing...."

"What I want to know is did you drug her?"

"What?"

"Drug her!  Drug!  Her!?!  She was shaking, trembling all over.  Sweating!  I had to give her a sedative."

"Drug her?  No, I would never..."

John gave him the side eye to end all side eyes, recalling the episode during the Magnussen caper which resulted in his pregnant wife falling asleep at the Holmes' kitchen table.

"Not to mention your own parents!" 

"And don't forget, my brother, too." Sherlock was inordinately proud of that feat.  Not too easy that, drugging a former double oh agent who had, at any given moment, at least six black ops running.

"Not an accomplishment, Sherlock, not a happy thing."

"Well," Sherlock murmured, staring at his feet, "I didn't drug her.  This time."

"Then how'd you do it?"  

"I...just talked to her."

"Sherlock?" John threatened, menace rising in his voice.

"Well, I..." Sherlock avoided the gory details by making as if he were going to serve a splendid repast, clattering dishes, opening and closing cupboard doors.  "You might want to have a cup of tea."

"Can I have one with no eyeball?"  John implored, settling into his old chair.

Sherlock put the kettle on.  "I make no promises."

 

 

 


End file.
